


Pawn Takes King

by the_consulting_criminal



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dark John Watson, John is Moriarty, Possible Character Death, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-The Empty Hearse, Pre-s3, Rating May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 04:36:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4087117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_consulting_criminal/pseuds/the_consulting_criminal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The criminal life fitted him like a glove, as it turned out.  Giving orders.  Danger.  Adrenaline.  Guns and weapons and money and pride that while he isn’t a Holmes, he’s certainly doing well enough to outsmart the one who’d remained in London.  He could avoid Mycroft and his men, thanks in no small part to the trust and sympathy extended to poor, moping little John Watson whose master had abandoned him.  The idiot didn’t have any idea—more sentimental than he let on, it seems.  Not a mistake that John would ever make again, but thankfully the elder Holmes is still making it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pawn Takes King

**Author's Note:**

> This idea has been floating around in my head for a couple months, so I finally decided to post it and see how everyone likes it. If it's received well, I'll continue posting more of the story. I do have two chapters written so far, but I'll post one first. Depending on the reaction, I'll leave it as a one shot or make it multi-chapter. 
> 
> Reviews more than welcome.

**ONE**

           The air is frigid and biting as he makes his way down the wet sidewalks of London.  Snow is piled high in the dark alleys tucked alongside the walkway, covering the ever-present dirt and grime in a refreshing blanket of crisp white snow.  Red and green reflect, sparkling, off of the ice crystals coating the neighborhood—a wash of colour to echo the bright lights of the season which adorn every building.  It’s still almost six weeks until the holiday itself, but the décor comes as little surprise.  The ‘Christmas season’ gets earlier and earlier every year, it seems, as companies take advantage of the giving to make triple profits.  But joy does seem to arrive with the season regardless of how commercialized it becomes, at least for most people.

            Not for him.  Perhaps it would have once, what seems like forever ago.  When John Watson was still the ‘good doctor.’  No longer does that title fit as he’d thought it always would.  It’s almost a joke, now.  An irony not lost on him.

            It’s been nearly two years since Sh- (no, not his name), _he_ had flung himself from the rooftop at Bart’s.  Remembering hasn’t gotten any easier.  Quite the opposite.

            His therapist had assured him that this was entirely normal.  That the grieving process is different for everyone.  The usual bullshit that they try to spout to make people feel like they’re normal.  To Ella’s credit, though, it had nearly worked.  He’d nearly reached acceptance.

            Nearly.

            Except of course it couldn’t be that easy with a Holmes involved.  He could pinpoint the exact moment when everything had fallen apart. 

            The moment that Anderson, of all people, had rung his doorbell. (9 months, 21 days, 10 hours, and 43 minutes ago, to be exact.  But who’s counting?)

* * *

 

            The doorbell had rung on a Sunday.  Why he remembers that, he has no idea, but he does. 

            John had gotten pissed at Ella, had shouted that he wanted to be able to beat himself over his own failure to do anything, thank-you-very-much.  So he was in a poor mood to begin with when the chime sounded into his new flat, which was nearly bare.  Everything from Baker Street was still packed into boxes.  That flat was too difficult for him, now, so he moved as far from it in London as possible, despite the inconvenience of having to take the tube to work every single morning. 

            How Anderson had found him, he still has no idea.  Probably Mycroft, the meddling bastard.

            It was about 15 months after ‘The Incident,’ so John was really none too pleased to see Anderson outside his door looking like a man possessed.  He had boxes piled up on his arms, though, so John could hardly turn him away. 

            He put on tea like a proper host, and the two of them sat down on the floor with their two cuppas.  John’s went untouched.

            He hadn’t believed what the man was telling him, at first, when Anderson had started spouting some ridiculous conspiracy theories about that day at the hospital.  To be honest, John had nearly punched him for even bringing it up, especially to him.  He’d been healing.  He’d been moving on. He dismissed his theories as the desperate attempts of a guilt-ridden man attempting to make himself feel as if it wasn’t his fault even though the evidence was undisputable.

            Or had been.  But then the ex-analyst had shown him some new evidence, piece by piece, and it felt like dying all over again.  Drowning.  Being shot. 

            There were newspaper clippings.  Foreign police case files.  Satellite images.  Social media snippets.  There were pages upon pages of proof strewn about his own floor, now, and more at Anderson’s flat where they were pinned on the walls and tossed around over every surface.  An obsession.  He’d even started some sort of club to share theories. 

Theories didn’t matter, though.  The facts mattered.  Everything was there, and while it may not be enough for Lestrade, it was enough for John.  He knew Sherlock better than anyone (or so he’d thought), and this was just his style.

            Dizzying, stomach-turning, clarity had aligned his thoughts, and John had to excuse himself.

            All this from Anderson, the man whom the detective had constantly belittled. 

            It seems Sherlock had underestimated both of them. 

            His mistake.

            That night had been the most difficult of John’s life, even worse than the night of the jump.  Pure, raw, and all-eclipsing betrayal from the man whom John had trusted with everything.  The man who had been the center of his entire world for the past few years.  The man he’d nearly died for on several occasions. 

            John ended up with a drink in his hand.  Then two.  Then five. 

            Betrayal turned to sadness.  Sadness to anger.  And by morning he’s wonderfully numb to the pain, replaced with a roiling, burning mess of fury that’s settled into the pit of his stomach and weighs him down in a much more welcome way than the depression had.  A terrible sort of acceptance. 

            But anger spurs him to action, rather than the depressed inactivity he’s been drawn into for so long. 

            He’d clearly overestimated his importance to Sherlock.  Had thought himself a friend.  But now his true role was evident.  An asset, to be used and discarded at the detective’s leisure.  A toy.  A pawn.

            And, he decided then and there, that he wouldn’t accept such a demeaning position on the chessboard.

            Fortunately, Bart’s had provided a vacancy for two far more powerful positions.  And he wouldn’t take Sherlock’s.  No.  The man would come back, and John would relish that moment.  But in the meantime, he takes up the other position on the opposing side of the board.

            The criminal life fitted him like a glove, as it turned out.  Giving orders.  Danger.  Adrenaline.  Guns and weapons and money and _pride_ that while he isn’t a Holmes, he’s certainly doing well enough to outsmart the one who’d remained in London.  He could avoid Mycroft and his men, thanks in no small part to the trust and sympathy extended to poor, moping little John Watson whose master had abandoned him.  The idiot didn’t have any idea—more sentimental than he let on, it seems.  Not a mistake that John would ever make again, but thankfully the elder Holmes is still making it.

            It hadn’t even been particularly hard to take over Moriarty’s crime syndicate that spanned the globe.  There had been a power vacuum, when the man had died, and John had quietly slipped into his place and played the part of James Moriarty.  Business boomed.  He kept away from any employees and clients, for the most part, and when it was unavoidable he played second in command to an invisible man who runs the world.  It was brilliantly effective, and John had been eerily quick to pick up on how to run things.  His plans were never as ridiculously complicated as Moriarty’s had been, save for one. 

            The bait to lure Sherlock back.  That plan had been lined up to the very end, planned and set out like a line of dominoes.  And it starts tonight.

            He approaches the arranged meeting place where he’d had his men bring the captive.  The building is old and crumbling in some parts, and John had a certain affinity for it.  Steel support beams cut up through collapsed brick, and he loved the dual symbolism.  The collapse of Sherlock Holmes, for one.

            And the endurance of himself despite the short collapse period that had plagued him what seems like millennia ago. 

            It was well out of London, out of reach of any of Mycroft’s men or cameras.  He’d scoped it himself.  Of course, the man would hardly be watching even if they were there, but better to be safe than sorry.  John was careful, now, that no one would get close in any sense of the word.

            There’s no door, but it’s no problem as John steps neatly through a hole in the wall that was only barely supported by the meeting of two wooden beams that had fallen against each other.  Presumably where the door used to be. 

            He mounts the stairs, shoes silent on the stone.  His wardrobe has much improved as a result of his newfound income, though he’s been careful to keep such purchases untraceable and hidden even when he brings them to his flat.  Button-downs, suits, Oxfords.  He understands now why the Holmes brothers, and indeed Moriarty, had such a fondness for the more expensive clothing.  It feels powerful.  Sleek.  In control. 

            He steps onto the second level of the building, which is only precariously still standing.  But solid enough for now.  It’s not like he’s living here.  His clothes blend with the shadows; for affairs like this, he’s taken to wearing black.  All black, simply because it blends in more readily.  Easier to disappear, should the need arise.

            The lightbulb at the top of the staircase flickers weakly on its lonely strand of wire hanging from the ceiling, but John ignores it for the most part save for a single, fleeting thought that Sherlock would find this entire thing cliché.

            There’s a single room upstairs that has been spared collapse, for the most part.  There’s three walls and a broken ledge that drops off to the concrete of the first floor, and a crack the width of a single man next to it in one wall that serves as a dangerous door.  John had had a railing installed around most of the ledge, except for one part that could be useful for persuasion.  Dangling over one’s death seems to be a good incentive for most to talk. 

            There’s a single chair in said room.  Wooden, hard.  Uncomfortable, not that it’s meant to be anything otherwise.  And on that chair is Molly Hooper, looking very small, and very afraid.  There’s three other men in the room, guns trained on the young woman to discourage her from moving, as if she could even bring herself to unclench her hands where they’re sitting in her lap, knuckles white.

            The terror on her face turns to confusion and tentative relief as John approaches, though her eyes are flicking over him, worriedly taking in his unfamiliar appearance. 

            “John?  Thank God, for a second I-”

  John ignores her, fishing a throwaway phone from his pocket.  It’s currently attached to a P.O. Box in the United States, and the signal itself won’t be going long enough for a satellite to track.  His expression is impassive as he looks down at her. 

            Once, he cared.  Not anymore.

            His voice is every bit as cold as his expression when he speaks. 

            “When I give you the phone, you will be very careful with what you say.  You will tell him that you’ve been kidnapped.  You will not identify me.  You will tell him that you have three guns aimed at you, and you will tell him that your captor will be all too happy to empty every single bullet from each of them into your head until it’s unrecognizable.  After that, you will tell him that he has 48 hours to find you, or your body will be delivered to him in pieces.”

            Molly has gone increasingly pale with every word, even more fear flooding through her as she realizes that John is not here to save her.  Quite the opposite. 

            “John, I don’t understand.... Who are you calling, what are you doing this for?  Is this something about Sh-”

            Before she can even get a full syllable out, John’s own gun is pointed dead between her eyes, his face still displaying indifference. 

            “Do not say his name to me.  I understand that maybe you think you’re special, because he let you in on the little fake suicide scheme of his, but you’re not special to me, and I would love to pull this trigger.  That would be probably the most satisfying moment of my life.  Clearly he won’t be coming back to London for me, but I’m sure he’d be willing to if it meant he got to come save _you._ ” It’s only here that any semblance of pain enters his voice, and Molly swallows, trying to keep from shaking.  John obviously knows. 

            “John, listen to me.  He cared about you, I know he did.”

            He smiles, this time, but it’s cold and sharp and as far from friendly as possible.  “Did he?  I don’t believe you, but then, I really don’t care anymore.”  He holds the phone out to her, dropping it into her lap.  “Now, I want you to call him.  And if you say anything to him other than what I’ve told you, the last thing he will hear is your brains getting splattered across the floor.”

            She can’t restrain the trembling by now, as she picks up the phone and stares at it.  The number has already been punched in, and she decides not to ask how John got it as she hesitantly presses the call button, setting it in her lap on speakerphone so that John can monitor the call. 

            It is a few minutes before a voice echoes through the speakers, sounding very much confused as to how anyone got this number.  For obvious reasons, the throwaway phone is not a familiar one.

            “Hello?”

            John tilts his head, free hand curling into a fist at his side briefly at the sound of the voice of the man who used to be his friend.  It’s rougher, but still recognizable.  An unidentifiable emotion crosses his features before it just as quickly disappears, and he nods at Molly to speak. 

            “Sh-Sherlock?  It’s Molly.”

            “Molly?”  His tone immediately goes to one of concern.  “Whose phone is this?”

            “I’ve been kidnapped.  He says that you have 48 hours to find me.  He has guns pointed at me, and he says that he’d be very happy to empty them.”

            There’s a pause before an angry voice explodes from the speakers, deadly calm with restrained fury.

            “Is this captor there and willing to talk?”

            She looks up at him, shaking her head, not that Sherlock can see.  “He’s listening.  He won’t talk.”

            “Do you know who he is?”

            “Yes.”

            “Tell me.”

            “I can’t.”

            Sherlock growls slightly.  “To whomever is listening to this, I’m going to find you, and I’m going to find Molly.  And I’m going to kill you once I do.” 

            John only smirks, but doesn’t speak, simply bending down to hang up the call before either Molly or Sherlock can say another word.  The woman looks up at him, a cross between sympathy and fear on her face.  “John, please stop.  You can just talk to him, this is unnecessary.”

            “I know.  But I think I deserve the chance to amuse myself.”  He looks over at the guards, nodding at her.  “Keep her here.  I don’t care if she’s uncomfortable.  Just give her two meals a day and a water bottle, she’ll be fine assuming he gets here in time.  If not, well.  Dehydration will be the least of her problems.  Call me if something goes wrong.”

            And then he’s walking out, feeling rather pleased with things so far. 

            Let the games begin.


End file.
